


Playing House

by FidotheFinch



Series: Whumptober [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: (nothing tagged here is sex-related), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Forced Infantilism, Gen, Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Self-Sacrificing Dick Grayson, Whump, Whumptober 2020, domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:35:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26772271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FidotheFinch/pseuds/FidotheFinch
Summary: Rule 1: Do as I say, no ifs, ands, or butsRule 2: Call me MommyRule 3, and this is the most important one: Family comes first.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Dick Grayson
Series: Whumptober [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947544
Comments: 108
Kudos: 208





	1. Welcome Home

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a work inspired by the prompts from Whumptober 2020, and I intend to fill at least one prompt with each chapter. Some chapters may be darker than others; I will have warnings at the beginnings of each so you can gauge your comfort level at reading it.
> 
> Overall warnings for this story: kidnapping, nonconsensual restraints, attempted nonconsensual drugging, domestic abuse, using family members as hostages, forced infantilism (not the kinky kind), some form of gaslighting, and the antagonist uses some "parenting phrases" that may be triggering for some folks (counting down, for example)
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: all of the above, plus ransom demands, being threatened with a gun, non-consensual non-sexual kissing (not on the lips), (the word "sugar," as in "give me some sugar," has a familiar affection connotation rather than a sexual one where I am from (southern US); I am warning for it regardless)

Dick’s feet hit the pavement as hard as the rain.

“Tim! Damian!”

There were no answers. A few people taking shelter from the weather in a nearby pavilion glanced over, but nobody said anything. This was Gotham, after all.

Dick’s jacket was soaked through, but he didn’t stop long enough to take it off. He wiped water out of his eyes and peered into the foggy weather around him. There was an open gazebo smack-dab in the center of the park, and he raced to it so he could get a better look.

His feet slid on the wet floor when he got inside, but he wasted no time pulling out his phone. While it rang, he searched the park again, in all directions, as though there were a chance the two of them had left their bags under a picnic shelter to play a demented game of hide-and-seek and would pop out from behind a tree, cackling.

He turned Tim’s broken camera over in his hands. No way he would have left it; it was new, a gift for his birthday.

He was so focused on his search he didn’t notice, at first, when Bruce answered the phone. He snapped back to reality with a sharp, “ _Richard_. Report.”

“They’re gone.” He was panting from his sprint through the park. “I’ve looked everywhere, and they’re _gone_.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“They left all of their stuff at our pavilion. Tim left his camera – the lens is cracked. I found it on the ground a few feet away.” He had to stop to catch his breath, and he swiped his soaked hair back off his forehead.

“Have you tried calling them?”

“Nobody answered.”

“I’ll have Alfred try again from the secure line. When did you last see them?”

“We had just finished setting out the food. I saw an old friend from school and we got talking, and when I got back they were gone.” His breath hitched when he saw two figures running down the path ahead of him. “Wait. I think I see them.”

Without hesitation, he ran after the figures. “Tim! Damian!”

They didn’t answer, but that was typical. As Dick got closer, though, he realized with a heavy heart it wasn’t his brothers. The two joggers hurried past him without a second glance.

“Dick?”

“It wasn’t them.”

A sound caught his attention. A familiar tune, one he had heard chirping through the thin walls of the manor countless times. He tuned out Bruce and followed the sound of Damian’s ringtone, hope building in his chest.

He found Damian’s cell phone, and that hope plummeted.

He reached into the weeds and pulled out the device. The screen was cracked, but he could clearly make out the caller ID across the screen. He hung up his own phone to answer Damian’s.

“Master Damian?”

“It’s me, Alfred,” Dick answered, voice flat.

“I think Tim and Damian have been abducted.”

* * *

Twelve hours later, Dick pulled his vehicle into a used car dealership’s parking lot. He scanned the lot as he pulled through, but didn’t find any signs of life. The shadows were still; the night silent. He seemed to be alone.

_“I want to talk to Richard,” the kidnapper had said through a voice modifier. Bruce had spluttered a refusal, but Dick didn’t hesitate to answer with, “I’m here.”_

Dick found a spot to park, but hesitated before opening the door. He rested a hand on the seat next to him, where a stuffed black duffel bag waited.

_“Bring $100,000 in unmarked fifty-dollar bills. No consecutive serial numbers. Pick it up from different banks and accounts. Come alone.”_

Dick hoisted the bag over his shoulder, wincing as its weight dug in. It was heavy, and nearly dragged him off-balance as he exited his car. His breath fogged in the night’s chill, and his car door shutting sounded like a nail in a coffin.

 _“Don’t involve the police,” the kidnapper had said._ “ _If I see a single cop get involved in the case, I’ll kill one of the boys. And I’ll let you decide which._ ”

Batman was around here, somewhere. Dick looked from the corner of his eye, and spotted a flash of movement from a rooftop not too far away. If they weren’t able to catch the criminal tonight, they would still be able to collect enough evidence to put him away.

But the most important thing was getting Tim and Damian back.

_“We need proof they’re still alive.”_

_“Oh, I can help with that.” Dick and Bruce exchanged a worried look over the phone speaker as footsteps sounded over the other end. A door creaked open. Then, “Timmy, honey, say something for your dad?”_

_The distinctive sound of bedsprings squeaking. "Bruce?”_

_“See? Safe and sound, as long as you follow my rules.”_

There didn’t seem to be anybody at the meeting place. “Hello?” Dick called out.

No response. He shifted the duffle bag higher over his shoulder and walked on, toward the back of the dealership building. “I’m here, just like you asked,” Dick said, raising his voice. “Alone. I have your mon—”

He stopped dead in his tracks as car headlights flicked on, directly ahead of him.

This wasn’t a ransom drop-off.

He dropped the duffel bag to the ground and backed up, but he couldn’t outrun a car. Wheels squealed on the pavement as the car lurched forward and took a sharp turn, cornering Dick against the brick wall. The trunk of the car popped open, and the streetlights glinted off the barrel of a gun.

“If you ever want to see your brothers again, you’ll get inside right now.”

It was a woman.

It was all the thought he had to process before a warning shot buried in the brick wall next to him, spitting dust and shrapnel at his face. He blinked and coughed, ducking to avoid a second shot.

“Get in _right now_! Don’t make me count!”

Weird choice of words. When he looked up, Batman had crept into the parking lot, and waited behind a car to pounce.

“One!”

Dick looked over the car, using his shock and fear as an excuse for his hesitation. There was no license plate, no identifying marks. He suspected it was a car from the lot itself. The woman wore black clothing; none of her skin or hair showed.

“Two!”

They didn’t know enough to identify the kidnapper; even if they were able to catch her, they wouldn’t be able to find Tim and Damian on their own. There was a chance she didn’t intend to take Dick to the same place, either.

Dick made eye contact with Batman, across the lot. Batman’s mouth was a hard flat line.

“Two and a half!” the woman shouted, through grit teeth.

Dick raised his hands. “Don’t hurt them,” he pleaded. “I’m coming.”

He rose to a full stand and shifted to the side, toward the trunk. The woman turned to point the gun at the back of the car while he climbed inside.

It was clean, at least.

She barely waited long enough for him to get both feet inside before she slammed the accelerator, and the trunk slammed shut over Dick’s head.

* * *

He felt the car swerve through city streets for what he estimated was twenty minutes, before they pulled onto a highway and drove for another hour or two. He reached out to smash one of the car’s taillights, but found them blocked with an extra layer of sheet metal. He used his hands to search the darkness for the switch that would open the trunk from the inside, but, predictably, this was missing, too.

She changed cars nearly two hours after they began their journey, forcing Dick’s wrists and ankles into two sets of leather cuffs that buckled behind his back. He felt sick to his stomach when he realized they were soft from use. She let him sit in the back seat, this time, with the assurance that the child lock was engaged and any “shenanigans” would be met with severe punishment. After she buckled him into the seat, she put a pair of sunglasses over his eyes. The lenses had been taped over; he was effectively blindfolded.

They drove another two hours. Dick worried his bottom lip with his teeth the entire car ride.

* * *

“Dick!”

“Tim?”

The sunglasses were ripped from his face, and he stumbled in the sudden light flooding the room.

It was a relatively small space, with two identical twin-sized beds set against opposite, pastel-blue walls. A dresser and desk took up most of the far wall. The lone window, above the desk, was boarded over.

Tim was lying in one of the beds. He wore similar cuffs to Dick’s, except his were attached to the metal headboard, keeping him pinned back. There were dark circles under his eyes, but Dick couldn’t find much else wrong with him on his first look-over.

“What are you doing here?” Tim asked.

Dick ignored the question, trying and failing to get closer to his little brother. “Are you hurt?”

“Timmy,” the woman behind Dick said, saccharine voice strained with the effort of pulling Dick toward the opposite twin bed.

Tim stiffened. His eyes tracked over Dick’s shoulder.

“You kicked your sheets down again. How many times do I have to tell you?” she admonished. “If you do it again, you’ll get time-out.”

“You’re crazy,” Tim said. “And I’m an _adult_.” He scowled at the look Dick shot to him. “Shut up, Dick.”

“Young man, you’re _already_ in trouble.” The woman pushed Dick down onto the opposite bed. “Language like that is _not_ allowed under my roof.”

“Then let us go.”

“That’s not how families act.” She pinned Dick down with a hand on his chest, and Dick got his first good look at her. She looked to be around her mid-thirties. Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled back into a messy bun, and her face was still round with youthfulness, even if there were the beginnings of creases around her eyes and mouth. Her makeup reminded Dick of old Hollywood movies.

As Dick studied her, she pulled something out of her pocket. When she smiled, it was sweet and warm. “Open up, sweetheart.”

Dick eyed the pill. He couldn’t tell what it was. “Uh. No, thanks.”

“Take the medicine and you’ll get some sugar.”

Dick recoiled. “ _No._ ”

She sighed. “The longer we have to do this, the longer it will be until I can check on your baby brother.”

Dick glanced around the room again. There were no signs Damian had even been there.

Tim seemed to know what he was looking for without him having to voice it. “I haven’t seen him since the park.”

“Hush, Timmy. You’re supposed to be asleep.” The sharp words were tempered by her soft expression. When she looked down at Dick, she held up three fingers. “I’ll give you to the count of three, and if you don’t take your medicine, I will have to put you in time-out, too.”

The counting again. It wasn’t unusual for Gotham’s villains to have their themes, but Dick had to admit this one was new.

“One.”

Maybe one of Calendar Man’s cousins? Dick fought the urge to roll his eyes.

“Two.”

“Dick,” Tim said, voice quiet. Dick looked past the woman’s hand and met Tim’s gaze.

Tim shook his head, just slightly.

The woman’s face was slowly getting more red, but her expression was frozen. “Thr—”

Dick opened his mouth.

“Oh!” Her smile stretched wider, revealing pearly white teeth. “Thank you for doing what I asked.” She placed the pill on his tongue and waited expectantly for Dick to swallow it.

Dick pocketed it under his tongue and pretended to swallow.

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” The woman didn’t seem too interested in waiting for the drugs to take effect. She got busy unlocking the cuffs behind Dick’s back and reattaching them to the bedframe in a mirror of Tim’s position. When she had finished, she stood up, admiring her work. “Would you like me to tuck you in, Richie?”

Dick’s face screwed up at the nickname. Ew. “No.”

She seemed determined to ignore him, reaching down and pulling the navy blue sheets over his legs and torso, tucking them into the sides tight enough they practically pinned him to the mattress.

“Where is Damian?” Dick asked.

“Dami’s in the nursery, where he’s supposed to be.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Shh, Richie.” She bent down at the foot of his bed, and a night light flicked on. “It’s time for bed.”

She leaned down over his face, and Dick cringed back.

She pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead.

He froze.

She stood up again and walked over to Tim, tucking him in again and repeating the gesture. Tim twisted his head away, and received a sharp slap in retaliation. Where she kissed his forehead she left a smudge of bright red lipstick.

The woman walked to the door and waited in the open doorway. “Goodnight, boys,” she said, sickeningly sweet. “Sweet dreams.”

The door locked behind her.


	2. Wait Until Your Father Gets Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober, Day 3: Forced to Kneel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I have to be honest: I wrote all 5,000 words of this chapter in the last 24 hours. It just kept getting longer?
> 
> Anyway, this chapter fills the prompts "forced to kneel" for Whumptober, Day 3, and it features Tim!whump, with a side dish of implied Dick!angst. I hope you enjoy?
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: corporal punishment (kneeling on rice, past palm caning), implied past child abuse (thanks selkie!), delusional antagonist, forced use of the title "Mommy," non-consensual (non-sexual) touching

Tim flexed his hands in his restraints. His palms ached, but it was a miracle he could even feel his fingers. The cuffs around his wrists were tight. He must have tugged at them in his sleep, because the skin beneath them burned. It was one more hurt to add to the discomfort travelling all up his arms, sore from being held in the same position all night.

And then.

He glanced down at his bare feet in the dim light that slipped past the boards over the window. He had kicked the covers off again in his sleep. Great.

He must have made a noise, because the sound of sheets rustling drew his attention to the other side of the room. “Tim? Are you awake?”

Tim strained his neck to look back toward the door. Aside “school,” meals, and the ransom call, he had spent most of yesterday alone in the room, trying to find an escape. It hadn’t been until nightfall, and the lights turned on in the hallway, that he’d spotted the shadows of her feet outside his door. She had waited outside for nearly thirty minutes, listening to him pace the room. He had just figured out how to detach the boards over the window when she’d come in and “put him to bed.”

And then she’d come back with Dick. And that changed things.

“Yeah,” Tim answered, when he didn’t see the signs of her waiting outside. He whispered, anyway, to be safe. “I didn’t think you’d be awake, though. Those little pills pack a punch.”

He knew; it’s how she had gotten he and Damian there in the first place.

Dick took the hint and dropped his voice. “I didn’t take it.”

Despite his rising anxiety, Tim managed a smirk. “Nice.”

If he squinted, he could just make out the shape of Dick’s face, across the room, in a mirrored position to his own. Dick was also twisting his neck and shoulder, trying to take in the room. He was more flexible; he was doing a better job of it than Tim.

“Is Bruce coming?” Tim asked.

Dick fell flat against his pillow. “She changed cars halfway here. I don’t think he knows where we are.”

Tim bit his lip. This wasn’t unexpected. They would just have to escape, themselves. Three vigilantes against one woman with a wooden spoon; how much could go wrong?

He flexed his hands again. His palms still hurt from the spoon.

“So, this lady?” Dick prompted.

Tim huffed, blowing his bangs out of his face. “Total creep.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“No, like. . . “ Tim licked his dry lips, searching for the right words. “You haven’t seen the half of it.”

The sound of the lock flipping was the only warning they got before the door swung open and light flooded the room.

“Good morning!” the woman sing-songed. “How did my little angels sleep last night?”

Tim and Dick made eye contact. Dick raised an eyebrow. Neither of them answered.

The woman didn’t seem to care. She took one look at Tim, and her expression grew dark. “Timmy, dear, what did we talk about last night?”

Dick suddenly rattled the chains holding down his arms. “Why did you bring me here?”

Tim shook his head minutely. He knew Dick would try something like this, to take some of the attention off Tim. But he didn’t understand what was at stake, yet.

The woman ignored Dick and instead stalked over to Tim, her heels clicking hollowly on the wood floor. She placed a hand against the side of his face and stroked her thumb softly across a cheek. It was bruised, he realized, where she had hit him last night.

“Honey, you’re going to catch a cold. You understand why I have to correct this behavior, don’t you?”

Tim caught the way Dick stiffened from the corner of his eye. He was careful not to break eye contact with the woman. “Yes.”

She tilted her head, and the hand on his cheek pinched in warning. “Yes, what?”

Tim’s eyes flicked over to Dick and back. He licked his lips. “Yes, Mommy.” The words felt slimy.

She smiled. She was wearing lipstick already, and the garish red color reminded Tim of the Joker. It was. . . very unsettling. “I’ll let you two get ready, and we’ll have breakfast, before you sit in time-out.”

Without an ounce of hesitation, she detached Tim’s cuffs from the bedframe. Tim held back a groan as he moved his arms down, stretching his shoulders and elbows in the process. The woman crossed the room to do the same for Dick.

Tim could see him making mental calculations. “Don’t,” he warned.

Dick glanced at the door and back to Tim. He tensed when the woman leaned over him to unlock his cuffs, but only stretched his arms out.

“I brought you each a fresh change of clothes. Go ahead and change while I check on your brother.” She passed a small bundle of clothes to each of them, and left the room. The lock clicked shut behind her.

Dick cracked his back. “What was that?” he asked, his voice carefully light.

Tim pursed his lips, turning away from Dick to examine his clothes. He shook out his shirt and frowned. A light blue polo, and navy shorts. It may as well have been one of his old boarding school uniforms.

“Tim,” Dick pressed.

Tim turned, already unbuttoning his pajama shirt (it looked like it had been pulled straight from a family’s Christmas morning pictures.) “It’s one of her rules.” He pointed to Dick’s clothes. “You’d better change before she gets back.”

“ _Tim._ ”

Tim let the edge of his anxiety flatten his voice to be sharp. “You can fight the little things, sure, but don’t do anything the jeopardize the illusion. You’re going to get hurt.”

Or get someone _else_ hurt.

Dick’s mouth pressed into a hard line, but he gave up on trying to pry more information out of Tim for the moment and turned his focus to changing into his own Boarding-School-Chic.

It wasn’t that Tim didn’t get it. It had been two days since he and Damian had been abducted, and Tim was already acting like Stockholm Syndrome had set in. But Tim had learned the hard way what happened if you didn’t stay in character. He didn’t have the time to explain.

He couldn’t do that to Damian.

When she returned, she cooed over their matching outfits and bound their wrists in front of them with about half a foot of slack between each shackle. She led them out of the bedroom, into an open foyer with a rocking chair and a bookshelf stocked with novels that looked like they were all bought at a thrift store. She paused to let them each take a turn in the bathroom.

Tim used the opportunity to search for another way out. He could guess which of the four doors was the ‘nursery,’ based on the way the woman kept glancing at it. The windows here weren’t boarded up, but Tim doubted they would have enough time to find a way down the side of the house without getting caught.

He and Dick silently followed her down creaky wooden steps, through a lower foyer (and past the front door, with no less than five locks holding it shut), and to a kitchen. She had them both sit at a large round table, and attached the cuffs around their ankles to the feet of the chairs.

There were four chairs total around the table. “Is Damian joining us for breakfast today?” Tim asked.

The woman turned away from them both toward the kitchen counter. “Not today, honey. He’s still asleep.”

Dick met Tim’s eyes across the table. Damian got up at 5 am, and according to his own account, had been getting up that early since he could walk. No way he would still be asleep. He hadn’t made it down yesterday, either.

Dick cleared his throat. “When do we get to see him?”

The woman turned around and grabbed an apron off a hook. “You don’t need to worry about him.” She tied it into a perfect bow around her back. “As long as he behaves, you’ll see him for dinner.”

“ _Dinner_?”

The woman hummed happily in affirmation. “Dinner is a family event, and everybody will be there at 6 o’clock, sharp.” She punctuated the last word by beating the handle of her whisk against the palm of her hand.

Tim winced at the memory of the wooden spoon against his palms.

Dick saw the moment and watched the woman. His hands clenched into fists.

She pulled a tray of eggs from the fridge and began to crack them into a glass bowl. “Alright, Richie. Since you’re new and don’t know the rules yet, I won’t punish you for not taking your medicine last night.”

Dick’s hands suddenly loosened in surprise.

“Timmy,” _crack_ , “Do you remember the rules?”

He had been forced to recite them. “Yes, Mommy.” His cheeks heated up at the forced moniker.

“Why don’t you tell Richie what they are? I’ll get started on breakfast.” She cracked another egg into the bowl in one clean, practiced movement that made Tim wonder how many families she had abducted over the years.

Tim stared down at the patterned tablecloth. “The first rule is to do what you say, no ifs, ands, or buts.”

“Or she’ll count down?” Dick half-joked, voice brimming with sarcasm.

Tim looked up from the table and managed a humorless smile. “Something like that.”

The woman turned around and swung the whisk between her hands. “I counted down because you didn’t know the rules yet. Starting today, if you don’t follow directions the first time, I’m going to have to punish you.”

Dick glowered. “What punishment is worse than this?” He raised his bound hands as example.

She turned back to the counter and resumed whisking, shrugging her narrow shoulders. “I will think of something. But we won’t have to get that far.”

Tim knew he wouldn’t be allowed to tell Dick outright, at least not in front of her. While her back was turned, he gave Dick a direct look and pointed up at the ceiling, hoping he would get the message.

From the way his brother’s expression grew darker, he did.

Finished with the eggs, the woman turned on the stovetop to let the pan heat up. “Timmy, what is rule number two?”

“We have to call you ‘ _Mommy_.’”

She gasped dramatically, throwing a hand over her chest. “You say it like it’s a bad word. No,” she poured the eggs into the pan and they sizzled. “New rule: you have to say it and _mean_ it.”

Tim cringed. “Okay.”

“Okay, _what_?”

“Okay, _Mommy_.”

“Thank you, Timmy. Richie, it’s your turn.”

Dick’s face twitched into something undecipherable and back in the blink of an eye. “Okay. . . Mommy.”

She nodded, pleased enough with the answer. “Timmy, rule number three?”

“Family comes first.”

She stirred the eggs in the pan absently. “That’s right.” Her voice was breathier, with a far-off quality to it. “Family comes first.”

Tim held his breath, waiting for her to snap. But after a moment, she shook out her shoulders and turned off the stove, scooping the eggs onto four plates.

“Bon appetite,” she sang, placing a plate of eggs and a cup of orange juice in front of both Dick and Tim. “I’ve got to take Dami his breakfast.” When she turned around, she was holding a toddler plate in the shape of a cartoon frog, with about a tablespoon of scrambled eggs, and a sippy cup full of unidentifiable liquid.

Dick’s brow furrowed. “He needs to eat more than that. He’s twelve—”

“Damian is smaller than both of you; he doesn’t need to eat as much.” She started her way up the stairs. “Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone.”

Tim looked down at the plate she had set in front of him. She had plated the eggs so they made a smiley face. Scrunching his nose, he squished the eggs with his fork until the effect was ruined. “I’m an _adult_ ,” Tim said, more to himself than to anyone else.

“I don’t like it any more than you do.” Dick speared a chunk of egg and examined it. They had watched her make it; it wasn’t drugged, but she hadn’t added any spices, either. He ate the piece tentatively, chewed, swallowed, and made a face. “She’s a lousy cook.”

Tim raised some of the egg to his own mouth and winced.

Dick didn’t miss it. His focus immediately left the food, and he leaned forward over the table. “Are you okay?”

Tim ate the bite and dropped his fork, shaking his head. “I’m fine.”

Dick sucked in a breath. “Your hands.”

Tim was quick to slide the offending appendages into his lap, out of sight. “They’re fine.”

“What happened?”

“I messed up, okay?”

Dick reached across the table with his hands out. “Let me take a look? Please?”

Tim could only hold his glare for another second before he relented. He set his hands palms-up in Dick’s.

Dick’s face went stony. He gently turned Tim’s hands over, examining the flushed and swollen flesh. There were still bright-red streaks running laterally across his tender palms. “What happened?”

“She caught me making a lockpick with one of her hairpins.” Tim closed his hands, hiding his sore palms. “She used a wooden spoon to teach me a lesson.”

Dick sat back, eyes shut tight enough to wrinkle his face. “Tonight. We’ll get Damian and leave.”

“You don’t _get_ it.” Tim picked up his fork and dragged the tines through his eggs. He regretted it the moment the words left his mouth, realizing what he had said.

Dick _did_ get it. He had been in his fair share of abusive homes before landing with Bruce.

Tim could be such an ass. He pursed his lips. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

Dick nodded.

“But you weren’t here before,” Tim explained. “You didn’t hear what she said.”

“Then tell me.”

Tim lowered his voice, even though he knew she wouldn’t be able to hear from upstairs. “As far as I can tell, she’s delusional. She’s trying to play out this fantasy of having her perfect nuclear family.”

Dick snorted derisively. “Then we break the illusion.”

“No, Dick. I got her talking about it. And the nuclear family has _two and half_ children.”

Dick’s eyes widened.

Tim swallowed. “I didn’t think she would do anything to _really_ hurt Damian or me before, because it would break the illusion. But with three of us here now—”

“One of us is expendable.” Dick finished the thought. He stared past Tim, probably out the window leading to the backyard, behind him.

Neither of them said anything.

Without another word, Dick picked up his fork. He ate his breakfast.

Tim stared at his plate. He was nauseous.

He ate it, anyways.

There was a shout from upstairs, followed by heavy thumping through the ceiling. Dick tried to shoot to his feet and nearly face planted in his breakfast for his effort.

A door slammed shut, and the woman stomped down the stairwell. Pieces of her hair had fallen out of her bun in wet clumps, and her mascara had smeared down her face. When she reached the kitchen and saw Dick and Tim staring, she froze and took a deep breath.

That unsettling smile fell back into place. Everything as it should be, even if she looked like she had just survived a tornado. “I’m sorry if I scared you, boys.”

“What happened?” Tim asked. He kept his voice carefully neutral.

“Your baby brother threw a tantrum. I had to take away some of his privileges.”

Tim didn’t even want to _imagine_ what that could have meant. He glowered down at the table.

“Richie, after breakfast, we usually go upstairs to our rooms. I’ll take you there after I get Timmy situated in time-out.”

Ah, crap. He had forgotten. He mumbled, “Shit.”

“ _Timothy_.” Her voice turned sharp. “I will not tolerate that kind of language under my roof.”

She wrapped a hand around his upper arm. But she was watching Dick, not Tim, when she spoke next. “Richie, dear, I have a special job for you later today. You’ll do it, right?” She squeezed hard enough her fake nails nearly broke skin.

Dick, for his part, looked like he was the one feeling it. “Yes.”

She turned her hand so her fingernails really dug in. Small beads of blood rolled down Tim’s arm.

The threat wasn’t lost on Dick. “Yes, Mommy.”

“Excellent.” She released Tim’s arm with a slight shove and stalked toward the kitchen pantry. Dick twisted in his chair the best he could to watch, but Tim knew he didn’t see what she grabbed, either, by the stony look on his face.

She disappeared into another room with a square box in her hand, and returned empty-handed. “If you so much as _peep_ , I will _double_ your punishment.”

She released Tim first, which Tim suspected was because she knew that Dick was less likely to act out if he didn’t know where Tim was. She frog marched him through the kitchen and around a corner, and Dick’s concerned face disappeared around the corner.

They were in a room Tim hadn’t seen yet, probably because there was a door with a little window showing the backyard. Tim braced himself, ready to make a break for it — if he escaped, she was back down to two, and she wouldn’t risk her illusion again — but she attached a hook to the short chain between his manacles.

Tim’s eyes followed that chain down to a hook in the corner of the floor. There was a rope stretched across the corner, about three feet up the wall. Underneath the rope, in a small pile on the linoleum, was a pile of rice.

“Kneel.”

Tim resisted. “No.”

“That’s thirty extra minutes.” She pressed down again, this time harder. “ _Kneel_. The longer we stand here, the longer your baby brother has to spend in the crib.

Tim shuddered. It was a dirty trick, but an effective one. He dropped to one knee. The rice crunched under his weight, but other pieces pressed deep into his skin. He lowered his second knee more gently.

“Arms over the rope.”

Tim did as asked. The rope fit snugly underneath his arms, and kept him from sitting back on his heels.

She tightened the slack on Tim’s wrists. Tim was stuck.

She walked a semicircle around him, heels clicking heel-toe from side to side.

Tim sat ramrod-straight under the attention, unable to see behind him.

She dropped to a crouch and adjusted his left knee so it rested more squarely on the rice. Tim bit his tongue to control his reaction.

Satisfied, she rose to her feet again, directly behind him. “You’ll wait here until your father gets home.”

Tim tried to turn around at the remark, pulling at his wrists. He didn’t even have time to ask, before her heels tapped away, and the door shut.

 _Wait until your father gets home_.

Like she was quoting an old movie or television program. Probably part of her psychosis.

He sagged a little, but the rope prevented him from moving much. It chafed against the sensitive skin under his arms, and he could already feel the bruises forming where it pressed hard against his sternum.

His knees already ached from kneeling on the hard tile. He shifted his weight slightly and flinched, sucking in a sharp breath. The rice dug into his bare knees. It was like kneeling on gravel. He could feel a few pieces that stuck straight up, pointed ends almost piercing skin.

It had probably been about two minutes.

He tried to move his weight backward, off the boniest parts of his knees. There was a distinct pop as a rice grain was crushed. The rest of the pile shifted, digging into new places that were previously unscathed.

This wasn’t going to be fun.

He tried to distract himself. The woman had a job for Dick. If it was anything like the “homework” she had had Tim do two days earlier, Dick was upstairs giving her the bank account information. Or telling her Bruce’s normal work schedule. Or any other information that would help her flesh out her fantasy.

He rehearsed escape plans in his mind. He quit that quickly; each one ended with one of them being caught. His brain shorted out when he started to follow the scenario into what the ‘punishment’ would be for attempting another escape.

It wasn’t good.

He tried studying the wall in front of him. He was kneeling in a corner, so the wall was all that was there to look at. There was some water damage bubbling the eggshell paint to one side, causing tiny hairline fractures in other places. And a cobweb in the ceiling, but Tim gave up trying to figure out what kind of spider made it when it put a strain on his shoulders and knees to look up.

So he was back to square one. Feeling his knees.

Nope. He closed his eyes. He was going to meditate through it. He steadied his breath, forced his muscles to relax, and let his thoughts go.

That worked until heels clicked on the floor behind him. He tensed automatically, opening his eyes. How long had he been out of it? Where was Dick? He mistakenly tried to twist around to see what had happened, and hissed when the weight shift moved the rice again.

It _really_ hurt.

“Timmy,” came a saccharine voice behind him. A hand landed on his shoulder, and it doubly hurt because the rope chafed against his bare inner arms. “Say hello to your father.”

Tim strained his ears, but no, there definitely wasn’t a third person in the room with them. The hand on his shoulder tightened. “ _Timmy_.”

“Hello.”

A solid black rectangle was lowered next to his ear. Okay, so this was a phone call.

“ _Tim_?”

Tim let out a breath. “Bruce.”

A manicured hand met his cheek, causing it to snap to the side. “That’s no way to speak to your father.” The hand came back, smoothing down the side of his face. “Try again, dear.”

Tim blinked away spots. Bruce’s voice was a litany of pleas on the other side of the call. He was really laying the Brucie persona on thick.

Tim hadn’t really ever called Bruce anything like that before. He didn’t want this to be the first time.

There was a half-filled sippy cup in the pocket of the woman’s apron. He hardened his resolve. “Dad.”

“ _Tim. Are you okay?”_

“Yeah.” Tim grimaced and bit his tongue. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Tell you father what you did.”

Tim glanced to the side. He could just make out the little number on the screen indicating how long the call had been on. Twenty minutes. That didn’t bode well; Bruce should have been able to track it within two. Unless she was threatening him with something.

“I broke a rule.”

“Which one?”

Tim’s fingers closed into a fist, and he absently yanked on the chain. The sound probably carried across the line. “I didn’t follow directions.”

“ _Tim, what is she doing? Where are you?”_

“And so you’re being punished.” The phone was lifted away from his ear. “You know we can’t let him get away with mouthing off like that.”

 _We_.

A bad feeling settled in Tim’s stomach.

The woman started to walk away, phone pinched between her ear and shoulder. “He’ll stay here until you get home.” She turned the corner into the other room, so Tim could only barely hear her next words. “Don’t be too long, honey.”

It took a second for the words to click, but when they did, Tim felt suddenly lightheaded.

She was bringing Bruce here. She was using them against him. She was going to have her perfect family, right here under her thumb. He had counted the doors on the upstairs foyer; the one he had assumed to be a closet must have been another bedroom.

* * *

The pain in his knees grew worse with each passing hour. Tim resorted to resting some of his body weight against the rope to help relieve the pressure on his knees. His feet were long asleep.

The light coming through the window was his only clue into how much time had passed. But at some point he could only focus on the pain.

He couldn’t meditate. The woman must have realized he wasn’t as affected as he should have been, because she stopped in regularly to ask for an apology.

Apparently he wasn’t able to keep the venom out of the words, “Sorry, Mommy.”

By her fifth visit, when the shadows cast by the window were long, he was shivering with pain. She didn’t have to say anything; he offered the most sincere, “I’m sorry, Mommy,” he could muster.

She pat the top of his head, soaked in sweat. “Thank you, Timmy-dear.”

And she left.

* * *

The light through the windows turned silver by the time she returned. There was another set of footsteps with her. Longer stride. Heavier.

Familiar.

“Tim,” came a hushed, horrified whisper.

Tim didn’t have the energy to act surprised. He just leaned his forehead into the corner and breathed out, “Dad.”

“Your father made it home, Timmy.” A clink of metal. “Have you learned your lesson?”

“Yes, Mommy.”

It wasn’t those delicate, manicured hands that unlocked his cuffs. It was Bruce. He helped Tim raise his deadweight arms over the rope and settle back.

Tim couldn’t help letting out a shout as his weight was lifted off his knees.

Bruce set him down so he leaned back against the wall. Tim gasped in air, his knees still curled up. He was afraid to straighten them.

“I’m so sorry, Tim,” Bruce said. He looked like he had aged about ten years. “I’m sorry I took so long.”

Tim couldn’t manage words. He shook his head.

“Hold still,” Bruce warned. Tim full-body flinched when Bruce gently swiped a hand down Tim’s knee. His fingers came away covered in blood and rice grit.

Tim steeled himself and looked down.

His knees were bright red, almost purple in some areas. The skin that had rested against the floor was either embedded with rice or bleeding freely.

“We’ll get you cleaned up in a jiffy,” the woman chirped, making Bruce’s face screw up in a snarl. “I’ll grab some antiseptic.”

Without looking up, Bruce growled, “And some ibuprofen.”

The woman shook her head. “No, honey, this is a punishment. He’s a strong young man, he’ll be better by tomorrow.”

As his feet started to tingle with new blood, Tim had the distinct thought that this was not true. Judging by the look on Bruce’s face, he agreed.

The woman left, and Bruce and Tim were left alone.

(The door was right there, but they couldn’t leave without Dick and Damian.)

“Why are you here?” Tim asked. It was the first of many questions he was able to put into words.

“I had to come. There was no other choice.”

Tim threw his head back against he wall, squeezing his mouth shut, as Bruce began methodically picking rice out of his knees.

“She told me to call into work. They think we’re all on vacation.”

Tim had to take a minute to catch his breath. “Alfred, too?”

Bruce was quiet. Tim searched his face, and his stomach dropped. “No.”

“I couldn’t get him to stay.”

“N— _agh_!” He cut himself off when Bruce pulled his knee a little straighter. “ _Shit_.”

Bruce at least looked apologetic. “We have to get the blood flowing again. I’m afraid there may be nerve damage.”

Tim’s mind had blanked out into a litany of _shit shit shit shit._ He blinked, trying to refocus. They didn’t have much time before the woman would get back. “She’s keeping us separated from each other. I haven’t seen Damian since getting here.”

Bruce nodded. “I expected as much.”

A thought occurred to Tim. “You know who she is.”

Bruce looked up and opened his mouth to answer, but Tim grabbed one of his hands to stop him. The woman was standing in the doorway, shoeless.

“Of course she knows who I am, sweetie.” She tilted her head to the side. “I’m his wife.”

Bruce leaned back, more to block her view of Tim than to get away from him. “Did you bring the antiseptic?”

“Right here!” She passed him a bottle.

Bruce gave Tim an apologetic look. “This will hurt.”

Tim clenched his jaw and nodded.

It didn’t stop the whimpers from escaping.

When his knees were clean, Bruce asked for some bandages. The woman had already brought them, and kneeled down next to Bruce, placing a possessive hand on his shoulder. “I can do it, honey.”

She tacked the bandages on carefully and smoothed the edges down. When she had finished, she leaned forward and smacked a kiss over each one.

Tim shuddered.

“All better!” The woman proclaimed. Her eyes narrowed. She pulled on one of Bruce’s arms and wrapped it around her waist. Bruce stiffened at the touch. “You should thank me,” she suggested.

(It wasn’t a suggestion.)

Tim didn’t hesitate. “Thank you, Mommy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking tomorrow off y'all, I'm dead X_X


	3. You made your bed; Now lie in it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Using my experience working with preschoolers for evil? It's more likely than you may think.  
> This is a day late, but it's for Whumptober Day 11: defiance 3:)
> 
> This is probably one of the darkest chapters. Take a stroll through those warnings and take care of yourself, please! <3
> 
> Warnings: forced infantilism (forced use of children's furniture and brief use of a pacifier), humiliation, non-consensual drug use, non-consensual restraints, somebody gets stabbed, blood, food control, off-screen and on-screen physical abuse, brief strangling, a single brief hint of an adult accompanying a minor in a bathroom (not followed through)

There was a battery-operated music box in Damian’s room, and it had been playing Brahm’s lullaby on loop for well over an hour now. He wanted to smash it. He wanted to pluck the little twirling giraffe from its pedestal and chew its wooden head off. He wanted to bend every tine of the comb so it wouldn’t play the infernal tune ever again.

He scowled at the device, as it started again, from inside the crib. He could do no such thing.

The ‘crib’ was nothing like he had seen inside any nursery before. It was the right size for an infant, sure, and had no bedding besides the fitted sheet covering the thin mattress beneath him. But Damian could barely fit two fingers in the gaps between the tightly-woven metal bars, and the heavy wooden plank locked over the top would certainly be considered a safety hazard. It looked more like a dog kennel than something you would keep a child in.

The cuffs around his ankles, keeping him relatively still? He had long given up on removing them, unable to manipulate the lock the way he needed to with his hands trapped inside the mittens of a large onesie.

The outfit was the final irritation: a buttercup-yellow, one-piece, footed-and-mittened pajama set with a bear ears on the hood. It was humiliating to wear, and made fighting the woman harder, and kept him from using his fine motor skills. The zipper pull was locked in place with a simple knotted drawstring, and Damian was unable to use his hands to untie it and free himself.

He had already memorized the underside of the wooden board covering his crib; he stared dully out into the dim room around him instead. For a nursery, the room was dull. There was a shaggy grey rug in the center of the room that hid the impressions of whatever furniture had been there before. And a rocking chair in the corner, where the woman would sit and rock and watch him for hours at a time. There had been a low table and child-sized chair in the opposite corner, but the woman had removed them when Damian refused to cooperate with her mealtime plans.

He had been able to hear through the doors and walls before, too. That’s when she’d introduced the music box, claiming the noise would help him sleep through his nap time.

As the loop started again, Damian considered the merits of bursting his own ear drums.

When the door finally opened, he sat up, instantly on alert.

The woman had fixed her hair and makeup. She smiled, locking the door behind her and tiptoeing toward the crib. “Hi, pumpkin.”

Damian sneered. “Don’t call me that.”

The woman frowned, but didn’t seem angry so much as disappointed. “That’s no way to talk to your mommy.” Her eyes scanned back and landed on the toddler cup propped in the corner of the cage, as far away from Damian as possible. “Oh, you haven’t finished your bottle yet. No wonder you’re so cranky.”

Damian tensed as she dipper hand into her pocket, unsure what horrors she would pull out this time. But it was only a skeleton key, and she used it to unlock the padlock holding the crib shut. With a huff, she flipped the lid back, and peered down at Damian like an owl watching its prey.

Damian leaned as far back into the opposite wall of the crib as he could. She tended to fall into that weird focused intensity every so often while she looked at him. It made his skin crawl.

She didn’t blink.

Finally, she hummed under her breath, pleased. “You can finish your milk with your dinner, then.”

Damian’s stomach growled at the mention of food. He tamped down his hunger for the time being; he had had nothing substantial since arriving, and doubted he would get more than dry cereal, halved grapes, and drugged milk until he escaped.

He said nothing as she took the cuffs off his ankles. He immediately scrambled to stand, and his legs nearly buckled beneath him, muscles cramping after being confined for so long. He braced himself on the ledge of the cage to keep balance.

The woman chuckled, reaching out and tousling his hair. “Still getting used to standing, aren’t you?” Her hand skimmed down under one of his arms. “Let me give you a hand, Dami-dear.”

Damian’s fight-or-flight kicked in, and he batted her hands away before she could try to lift him. “Don’t touch me.”

“ _Damian_ ,” she scolded, voice going hard very suddenly. “Do you want me to leave you in the crib?”

Damian glared at her to hide the spike of fear that shot through him at the prospect of being locked in again. “I can get out myself.” With practiced ease, he flipped one leg after the other over the railing, landing soundlessly on the padded carpet.

She stepped back and crossed her arms, face getting red. Damian’s eyes flit back to the door behind her. He wouldn’t let himself be locked in the crib again; if she lunged he wouldn’t hesitate to knock her unconscious, secret identities be damned.

But her face suddenly broke into a smile, her body language shifting into delight. “Look at you! You’re growing up so fast!” She clapped her hands together and Damian flinched at the loud sound. “Wait until your daddy sees this!”

All time warped to a stop as the words sank in. “Father?”

She nodded, leaning down to tether his wrists together. “Your daddy just got home from work, pumpkin. We’re all going to eat dinner together. Aren’t you excited?”

It felt as though the floor had been swept out from under his feet. He had known that Richard had been captured, based on the woman’s ramblings after she had returned to his room late last night. But Father was here, and that meant. . . what did that mean?

The woman’s hand clamped around his chin and forced him to look up. “Aren’t you _excited_?” she repeated.

Father had to have a plan. There was no other explanation. It was best for him to cooperate, so he could see his brothers and figure out their plan for escape.

She squeezed his face hard enough Damian knew it would be bruised. “Yes,” he grunted.

“Yes, _what_?”

Damian pressed his lips shut in displeasure. He hadn’t said it yet, and he didn’t plan to stoop so low any time soon. “You cannot force me to say it.”

For a moment, he thought she was going to push him back and force him back into the crib. But she blinked, released his head, and walked to the door. “Okay, pumpkin, do you need to go potty before we eat?”

When he realized that she wasn’t going to address what he had said, a weight settled in his stomach. Dread. “Yes.”

“How do you ask?”

His ears burned. “May I please use the restroom?”

“Thank you for asking so nicely, Dami-dear.” She unlocked and opened the door, ushering him onto the landing outside his room. He had barely left the ‘nursery’ since waking up here, and eyed the open window with a calculating gaze. But an insistent hand on the back of his neck pushed him into the bathroom.

“Do you need help?” she asked, tone not revealing whether she realized how the question sent shivers down his spine.

“No.”

She nodded, “Okey-dokey. Just let me know when you’re all done,” and started to shut the door.

Damian looked back at the toilet and panicked. “Wait.”

She opened the door again, eyebrow raised expectantly.

Damian hated this. “I can’t—you need to unzip me.”

She smiled. “Try asking nicely.”

Damian’s hands clenched into fists inside the stupid mittens. “Would you please unzip me?”

He had avoided using the nickname again, but she didn’t react, moving forward and untying the laces holding the zipper in place. She unzipped it down to his sternum before he stepped away.

“What do you say?”

“Thank you,” he spit with as much sarcasm as he could muster.

She nodded, leaving him alone in the bathroom for a few precious minutes. When he was done, she retied the laces and led him downstairs.

Richard was already waiting at the table, drumming his fingers anxiously against the wood. His ankles were locked to the legs of the chair he sat on. His eyes lit up when he saw them enter, and he sat up straighter. “Damian!” His eyes tracked up and down, obviously looking for injuries.

Damian felt his ears heating up again and ducked his chin, unable to make eye contact while dressed like a fool. “Richard,” he greeted.

One hand snaked around to his face and pinched a cheek. “Isn’t he cute?” the woman asked. “He’s got some news to share with us tonight, too.”

Damian’s shoulders rose defensively.

Richard saw his reaction and tried to deflect. “I thought Bru—dad was home. Where is he? And where’s Tim? We don’t want them to be late to dinner.”

The woman only hummed, releasing Damian so he could rub his cheek in disdain. She rested her hands on his shoulders, keeping him pinned in place.

As if on cue, Father arrived, from a back room off the kitchen. His expression was dark, and Damian instantly knew why. Timothy was draped in Father’s arms, quivering slightly. Large blood-crusted bandages over each of his swollen knees already showed signs of bleeding through.

Damian leaned forward, against the acrylic nails digging into his shoulders. “What did you do?” he hissed. Richard wore a similar stony expression.

Timothy turned his head into Father’s shoulder.

“Honey,” the woman admonished. “You’re going to spoil him.”

Father’s jaw twitched. “He can’t walk.”

Dick sucked in a breath, quietly. “What happened?”

“Your brother broke one of my rules and had to face the consequences.”

Father gently set Timothy in one of the chairs. He knelt in front of it and took one of Timothy’s hands in his. “Give it a few days for the swelling to go down, and it will be better.”

The woman coughed politely. Everyone’s focus shot back to her and Damian, and Damian didn’t get it until her hands rose from his shoulders to his neck, fingers curling around the tender bruises hidden by the pajamas. He tensed, but she didn’t squeeze. Yet.

“Dinner is getting cold.” The words were hollow, a thinly-veiled threat.

Father’s eyes narrowed. The hands holding Timothy’s tightened, but he didn’t otherwise react.

Damian gagged, her fingers suddenly spasming tighter around his throat. His hands flew to hers, but he couldn’t get a grip because of the _damned mittens_.

Reflexive tears kept him from clearly making out what happened in front of him, but he could hear chairs shifting and then his throat was released. He coughed, trying to breathe in and out at the same time to catch his breath.

“Thank you, honey,” the woman said.

When Damian was able to blink the tears away, thankfully not spilling any, everyone was seated around the table, ankles locked into place. Richard gripped his fork and spoon like he was planning on skewering somebody with them. Father’s face was similarly dark.

There was one empty chair left at the table. Damian stepped toward it, expecting to receive similar treatment. Instead, the hands held fast, pinning him in place. “You have a special seat, pumpkin. Wait right here.”

To everyone’s amazement, she let go, and opened a door leading down dark steps to disappear.

“Damian.”

Damian’s focus shot back to the table. It was Timothy who had spoken. His face was set in determination. “Go, while you have the chance.”

As if.

He tutted his tongue and ducked beneath the table, intending to unlock the cuffs before she returned. Together, they could defeat her.

From here, he could see Timothy’s knees more clearly. The egg-shaped bulb of swelling was an obvious sign of bursitis. It would make their escape more difficult.

He found Richard’s ankles, which were less likely to be seen from the woman’s angle, and began tugging at the leather restraining them.

“Damian,” Richard whispered in warning.

“Help me,” Damian growled. “Use your hands. I think if we both pulled at the same time—”

A gentle hand rested on top of his head, stilling him. “Stop. We can’t.”

Damian was so angry he nearly hit his head on the bottom of the table. “What do you mean we _can’t_?”

The answer was instant. A crash came from beneath his knees where he sat, followed by a muffled but distinct grunt. Damian’s face fell as the sound repeated, once, twice.

His blood ran cold when he realized what it meant. “Why is _Pennyworth_ here?”

The footsteps returned to the rickety basement steps, definitely heavier this time. “Dami-dear, I do hope you listened to me.”

Father’s voice was low and urgent. “Go.”

“I’m not leaving without you.”

Richard moved his knee in a way that looked as though he had been attempting to kick him, but was stopped short by the cuffs. “ _Go_.”

Though the kick didn’t make impact, Damian felt it in his chest. He scrambled backward, backing out from under the table. “I don’t—”

He didn’t finish his sentence. He rose to his feet and turned—

To be face-to-face with the woman.

And next to her, a high chair.

Its seat was big enough for a small adult to sit in. The tray was lifted, revealing a bar that would rest between his legs to keep him from slipping out.

Damian jumped when she pulled him toward it. Closer, he could see the bolts on either side of the top of the tray. He scoffed to hide the jolt of fear it gave him. “You must be joking.”

She threaded her arms under his, lifting him with only a slight huff of effort. “Right next to Mommy.”

Damian kicked his feet and thrashed, but all she had to do was place him approximately into the seat. The tray was weighted, and when she snapped it down it was either cooperate or risk being injured. It clicked shut with a sense of finality, and she wasted no time locking his hands down onto the tray.

He tugged on the restraints. There was no give.

“There we go!” she announced, stepping back and brushing her hands together. “All ready for dinner!”

His entire face burned with embarrassment. At least, when he managed to peel his eyes off the tray, nobody was looking at him. They all glared at the woman, and Damian imagined that if any of them had had Superman’s laser vision she would be deep-fried by now.

“I’ll get our plates,” she announced, unbothered by the looks. She turned back to the counters and started passing out trays.

Richard and Father were having a silent conversation across the table, but Timothy met Damian’s eyes, with something that Damian’s couldn’t identify in his expression. Then his gaze travelled lower, to Damian’s neck, and Damian turned his head, wishing he could turn his entire body enough to hide the injury Timothy knew was hidden under the pajamas.

Damian hoped he knew he didn’t blame him.

The woman set a steaming plate of chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans in front of Timothy, his father, and herself. She set a toddler plate with—again—halved grapes, baby carrots, and dry cereal on Damian’s tray, between his bound hands.

She took her seat, leaving one plate of food on the counter. Nobody moved as she started to eat.

Father was the first to break the silence, as she chewed her dry-looking chicken. “Where is D-Richard’s food?”

She held up a finger, stopping any further conversation. After she had swallowed, she flipped her fork back at Damian, and Damian stiffened where he sat. “Dami has something he would like to tell you, honey.”

All eyes turned back to him, and that seed of tension in his stomach bloomed into dread. “I have nothing to say.”

The woman calmly sawed a green bean in half. “Are you sure?” She stabbed the fork into the bean the way you would a body. It was undercooked. “You have nothing to share with your daddy?”

Damian curled his hands into fists. “No.”

She slammed her open palm against the table. “What are the rules?”

“I don’t care about your rules.”

“ _What are the rules_?”

“I’m not saying it!”

She stood up. “Pumpkin,” she started, brandishing her fork higher into the air. The mangled green bean was still threaded through the tines. “I am going to give you until the count of _three_.”

“April—” Father opened his mouth to protest, and without looking she reached back and tipped his plate onto the floor. It shattered, sending glass and food flying everywhere, but she didn’t even blink as she stared down at Damian.

“ _One._ ”

Damian could stare back just as hard, fury and embarrassment burning in his chest. “No.”

“ _Two_.”

She was looking at him in the way she did while he was in the crib. Like he was a piece of meat.

“ _Three_.”

She drove the fork down. Damian jerked to get away, but his restraints held. The tines of the fork ripped straight through his mittens and sank into the back of his right hand, between his pointer and middle finger.

He tried not to scream. But a strangled yelp still made it out of his throat.

As fast as it happened, he wasn’t prepared for the cacophony of noise behind her. A chair tipped to the side as Richard lunged at her back. He missed, and the restraints around his ankles carried him down to the floor with the furniture and discarded food. A fork flew by her head and hit the wall behind Damian. The table moved, as his father tried to shove her out of the way with it.

She leapt delicately out of everyone’s reach, heels clicking on the linoleum.

The fork was left in Damian’s hand, upright except where it listed to the side with the weight of the curved handle. Dark red stained his yellow mittens, mixing with the juice from the impaled green bean to make an ugly brown stain in the pajamas.

The green beans must have been salted, at least, because the juice stung when it seeped deep enough to hit his wounds. Despite himself, Damian hissed. His fingers twitched without his permission.

“Richie, if you wanted to eat from the floor, all you had to do was ask.” The woman remarked.

Richard glared at her from his position on his side, propped up on his elbows. With his ankles restrained he couldn’t get back up on his own.

“I’m tired of your tempter tantrums, Dami.” She pulled out the remaining empty chair and took a seat. “Timmy,” she snapped, making the boy jump. “Rules.”

Timothy didn’t look up from the table. “Always do what you say. Call you ‘Mommy.’ Family comes first.”

She nodded, and Damian thought she was going to calm down again. But she abruptly pushed out, removing Timothy’s plate from the table, as well. He winced when it hit the floor, but otherwise didn’t move.

“Why did you do that?” Damian growled.

“You’ll learn to follow the rules, pumpkin, or you’re going to face the consequences.”

Damian sank lower into his seat, entire body shaking with the injustice of it all. “Leave them alone.”

She turned around in her chair to face him, and to his horror she picked up half a grape and held it out in front of his face. “Ask nicely and I will let you eat.”

“No.” He dumped all of the venom he could muster into the single syllable.

“You’re a growing boy. Either you eat this or I’ll find another way to get this yummy food in your belly.”

Damian’s hands flexed on instinct, and he hissed when the fork in his hand jumped with the muscle movement. “Let me feed myself.”

“You lost that privilege when you showed me you can’t handle it.” She held the grape half a little closer. “Ask nicely,” she reminded.

Damian looked past her, at the table. Timothy and Father watched with narrowed eyes. There was nothing else for them to do; the table was empty. Richard made a sound of protest from the floor, but a swift kick from the woman—from _April_ —made him go awfully, deathly quiet.

“Richard?” When Damian looked, Father’s face was pinched, eyes directed at where he guessed Richard’s head to be.

“Open wide.”

Nobody else needed to get hurt. Not for this.

Face burning, Damian muttered, “Please.”

“Sorry, pumpkin, you’ll have to be louder.”

“Please, Mommy.”

She smiled, tone rising back to her bubbly baby voice. “Here comes the airplane!”

She wove the grape through the air and into his waiting mouth.

She fed him, bite by bite, ignoring her own plate of food, for the better part of an hour. Whenever anybody else tried to talk, she flicked the fork in Damian’s hand, forcing a whimper out of him. Damian was trapped in the spotlight, listening to his family’s stomachs gurgle as his own felt better for having something inside it again.

It made him sick to his stomach.

When his plate was finally clean, she reached into a pocket on her apron and produced the sippy cup he had been avoiding all day.

He shook his head in protest, but she pinned him with that unblinking gaze, leaning in too closely too run her free hand down his face. “Finish your milk.”

She didn’t wait for him to muster the courage to beg, this time. She jammed the spout into his mouth, hitting his teeth, and held it at an angle so the milk began to pour out of it on its own.

It was sweeter than milk should have been, and it had a bitter, chalky aftertaste. It made his tongue tingle. Damian tried to shake her off, but she pinched his nose and trapped his head up and back against the back of the chair, and he was forced to eventually swallow or risk choking.

It didn’t take long for the effects to kick in. It started as warmth in his stomach, and it spread out to the rest of his body gradually, numbing and relaxing everything. Heavy weights dragged at his eyelids.

He shuddered when she pulled the bottle away, and let his chin drift down toward his chest. The fork was tugged out of his hand with more resistance than he would have expected, making him groan through the feeling.

“Honey, if I let you up are you going to behave? You know what will happen if you don’t.”

There was more conversation, but it slipped out of his reach faster than he could process it.

Someone released him from the chair, and before he could muster the energy to react, lifted him. A short trip later, big hands were lowering him onto a thin mattress.

With herculean effort, Damian opened his eyes enough to see who it was.

His father leaned down over him, but he didn't feel afraid. One hand brushed back through his hair, gently. Damian thought it was a nice feeling. He wished Father would do it more often.

"I'm sorry," his father whispered.

And then he disappeared, a less welcome face leaning over him. April gripped under his jaw, forcing his mouth open. He tried to struggle, but he was too tired.

The bulb of a pacifier, soft and smooth, was shoved into his mouth.

He spit it out, a fresh wave of embarrassment creeping through the haze of the drug. "No."

But she only pressed the cold plastic against his lips hard enough to bruise. Something wound around his head and snapped together, in front of him.

When she pulled back, he pushed at the intrusion with his tongue, but it was stuck. He bit the soft part in discomfort, and made a noise in the back of his throat.

April gazed down at him. “Don't worry, pumpkin," she crooned. "I’ll be back to read your bedtime story after I’ve put your brothers up.”

She swung the top of the crib down and locked it into place.

The opening notes of Brahm's Lullabye drifted up through the bars. Despite how he fought it, Damian fell asleep before the tune repeated.


	4. Play with Fire and You'll Get Burned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. . . forgot about this one completely. Sorry for taking so long?
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: one situation that could imply non-con but isn’t followed through, implied cannibalism (it’s not human I promise but Bruce thinks it could be), graphic burns, uhhhh threats against minors?, implied off-screen strangulation, past child abuse, blood

Bruce’s shoulders tightened as April Jones ushered him into the empty bedroom and shut the door behind the two of them. He wasn’t sure what exactly she would do; that was what made her unpredictable. And that frightened him, a little.

Nothing in her record indicated why she would be doing all of this. She grew up in a loving home, went to college, had a business degree from a little private university further down the coast. Never married.

That’s what he reminded himself of as she shut the door behind herself, a smile curling her lips. She had never been married.

It repeated, a mantra in his head, as she backed him up toward the master bed int eh middle of the master bedroom.

“Okay, honey, you should get to bed,” she whispered, reaching up to loosen the tie she had demanded he wear. “Tomorrow starts the weekend; I was thinking we could grill outside?”

Bruce blinked. “Grill?”

She ran her hands down his shoulders. It was only years of practice keeping a poker face at galas and banquets that kept him from cringing. “I think there’s some meat in the chest freezer in the basement.”

That’s where Alfred was. “I can go down and get it now. It will need to defrost,” he lied.

She threw her head back and laughed. “Don’t worry, honey, I’ll take care of it. But you can still be the grillmeister tomorrow.”

She pushed him down onto the bed and locked his hands into the manacles around the headboard, just like she had done to his kids. “Get some sleep; we have a busy day tomorrow.”

She pulled the blankets up over him, traced a finger down his chest.

And left.

* * *

The sun was already hot by the time April dragged him outside for “family bonding.”

April came to Bruce’ room late in the morning. When he had asked what had happened to breakfast, she had only laughed, and explained that Saturdays were for sleeping in. It became clear, as she led him through the house, hands bound in front of him with some slack between his wrists, that nobody else had been let out yet. A soft tinkling melody drifted under the door to the nursery, but the house was otherwise silent.

It reminded Bruce of the was the forest sounded when a predator was nearby.

The backyard was sparse; a flat piece of land with prickly overgrown grass, fenced in by tall weathered wood. He couldn’t see over the fence, but he had seen enough during his drive into town to know that it was an illusion. There was nobody else around for miles. When the wind blew, he could just make out the glint of a few wires circling about a foot over the fence, too. No doubt electrified.

A round, concrete table with matching curved benches stood in the corner of the yard. Bruce sneered at the highchair set next to it, undoubtedly in preparation for Damian’s arrival. Paper plates and plastic utensils were set in neat piles on the corner of the table.

Several meters further down the yard was a shiny black grill, large enough to roast an entire pig inside. Bruce’s stomach dropped at the terrible thought it would be large enough to fit a _person_ inside.

April caught Bruce looking. “Isn’t she a beauty?” she asked, dragging him closer to it by the arm around his elbow. “I got it especially for you and the kids.”

She flipped the hood of it back, revealing its gaping maw of charcoal and metal. A delicate finger slid along one tine of the grate, and she tisked at the black charcoal that sullied her hand. “It could use a good cleaning, though.”

Bruce wasn’t sure that was how grills worked. He wasn’t really sure how grills worked anyway, to be honest; that had always been Alfred’s job. Rather than revealing the fact, he asked, “Where is the hamburger?”

April gave him a sly smile. “Don’t worry, I didn’t forget. The meat is downstairs defrosting. I’ll bring it up while you get the grill going.”

She patted him on the shoulder again, and without ceremony connected a chain to Bruce’s left manacle. “I’ll wake up the kids, too. The older boys should help,” she called over her shoulder as she waltzed back inside.

When she was out of sight, Bruce crouched to see where the chain was attached. If they all got outside, this was their best bet at escape. Each of them had enough experience in Gotham to easily scale the wall, even if it meant dodging an electric fence.

Well, Alfred would need help. And maybe Damian, because of his height.

And Tim. . .

When they escaped, Bruce would carry him.

The chain was looped through the support system under the grill. An experimental push told him it was too heavy to move by himself without raising suspicion. If he wanted to give himself away like that, he would need to wait until everybody was outside, at least.

He rifled through two of the drawers built into the side of the grill, looking for a weapon, or at least something that could be used to distract April. He found a box of matches, as well as tongs, a wire brush, a meat thermometer, an odd flat disk with a closed hook on one end, and a small timer. Nothing particularly useful, but they would work in a pinch. He tucked the meat thermometer under the hem of his pants.

With the matches, he began coaxing a flame out of the charcoal. That’s when April returned, the door opening with a loud, “Put some pep in your step, sweetie. We don’t have all day.”

Bruce looked up at the name, tensing at what he saw.

Tim came out the door first, limping heavily and grimacing at every step. His hands were bound in front of him, a small amount of slack between his manacles giving him just enough movement to theoretically feed himself, if April would allow it. The bruise over his cheek was even more pronounced today, complementing the bags beneath his eyes.

None of it was anything compared to the way his knees had swelled overnight. They were the size of large oranges. The bandages over them were lined with beads of fresh and crusted blood.

A harsh shove from behind sent him sprawling, and he caught himself with a gasp on his hands and knees.

“Don’t be so dramatic, dear,” April huffed. She stepped out the door, dragging Damian behind her. Bruce caught himself surprised; his youngest had been so quiet he hadn’t realized he was there.

April hauled Tim back to his feet by his arm, with surprising strength. The blood was dripping down Tim’s shins, now.

Bruce’s anger flared. “He shouldn’t be walking.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, honey. He’s fine.”

“Let me carry him.”

April shot him a sharp look. A warning. “You’ll _spoil_ him.”

Bruce couldn’t get any closer; he had to acquiesce with an abrupt nod.

April finally released Tim’s arm to smooth a hand down his hair. “Timmy, dear, set the table?”

Tim’s nose scrunched in distaste. “Yes, Mommy.” He leaned a hand against the brick outer wall of the house for support as he limped his way toward the table. Thankfully, it was small enough he could set out the plates without rising from the seat he took on the bench.

Satisfied that Tim had made it to the table, Bruce returned his attention to his youngest. Damian was dressed in a new pair of footed pajamas, this one without a hood. His frown was clear even with the pacifier still locked in his mouth, his injured hand tucked protectively into his stomach. He squinted in discomfort at the bright light outside, his pupils still blown wide.

He stepped back when he saw Bruce looking, running into April.

“Aw, it looks like someone is still sleepy from his vitamins,” April cooed, clearly misinterpreting the action. She released her grip around his elbow to run her hand up and down his arm possessively.

Damian balked at the touch. He bucked, trying to throw her hands off.

“Ah, ah, ah,” she chastised. “Remember your manners, pumpkin.”

His eyes darted over to the highchair and he paled.

“Where is Richard?” Bruce asked, hoping it would redirect some of the attention away from Damian.

Tim paused, a paper plate halfway set by the table. He caught Bruce’s eye and gave the smallest head shake.

April’s smile turned predatory. “He has some things to think about before he’s allowed to join us.”

In an abrupt change of mood, she clapped her hands together, making Damian flinch. “We need the meat! Dami can come with me.”

Damian’s eyes went wide as she began to drag him back toward the door. His feet backpedaled, fighting the tug. A distressed growl escaped his throat.

“Just because you’re little doesn’t mean you can’t help,” April scolded. Then, looking back at Bruce, she added, “Really, honey, we’ve spoiled them.”

There was nothing anybody could do. Bruce tugged at the chain around his wrist in anger as they disappeared into the house, out of his reach again.

But she was out of earshot. Bruce leaned toward Tim, getting as close as possible with the slack in his chain. He wasn’t even close enough to reach the table.

Tim opened his mouth, obviously expecting a question. “Dick—”

“Are you okay?” Bruce asked, at the same time.

Tim’s face twitched, but he shook his head in dismissal. He frowned instead down at his knees, and in a sardonic tone: “She was right; I wasn’t able to kick the sheets down last night.”

Bruce let out a loud huff through his nose. It wouldn’t do to get angry now; he needed to think. “We need a plan.”

Tim nodded, immediately on board. “She won’t bring Alfred upstairs; he doesn’t fit the delusion. He’s. . . collateral.”

“We will have to get him out first,” Bruce agreed.

“I looked for the basement door on the way out this morning. There’s a keypad. We’ll need the code to get downstairs.”

They both frowned at each other. The wouldn’t need a code if they had _any_ of their gear. Or even if they knew where to find electronics to strip. But April ran a tight ship; there didn’t seem to be anything.

Bruce went through the drawers by the grill again, hoping he would come across something he missed the first time around. They remained nearly bare, but the meat thermometer was still tucked away.

There was a flash of movement in the window by the kitchen. April was on her way back.

“Tim. Do you have pockets?” Bruce asked.

“I don’t even have shoes.”

Bruce frowned at Tim’s bare feet. Another hurdle to jump, when they get there. Unable to arm his son, he slipped the matchbox under the seam of his own belt, next to the skewer. April seemed less likely to check him for any contraband than the boys, anyway.

He was able to tuck in his shirt and return to looking sullenly at the warming grill before she left the house, gripping his youngest by the elbow. In her other hand she carried a plastic-wrapped parcel.

The ‘meat.’

Something in Damian had changed. Bruce didn’t know what he had seen, what April had done downstairs, but it was enough of a threat to make him cooperate.

“Dami is _such_ a great helper,” April announced to both of them. She leaned down to whisper theatrically in Damian’s ear, much too close for Bruce’s liking. (Damian didn’t push her away this time.) “Pumpkin, can you take the meat over to your daddy for me?”

Damian only barely hesitated, nodding before she dropped the package in his hands. His footed pajamas meant he wasn’t barefoot, but he picked his way across the yard carefully, eyes downcast.

The moment he could, Bruce landed a hand over his smallest’s shoulder, thankful to be within range. He was hot to the touch, no doubt caused by the fleece pajamas he still wore. More frightening was his pallor.

“Thank you, Damian,” Bruce said, trying to catch his eyes, get some idea of how “there” Damian really was.

Damian looked up, clearly conscious enough to understand the question in Bruce’s tone.

And it exposed a ring of purple bruises around his neck. Fingerprints.

Bruce sucked in a breath at the sight. He reached up to carefully rub a thumb against the darkest of the bruises. They weren’t all new enough to be from last night. “What happened?” he asked.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Tim look away guiltily.

Collateral. That’s the word Tim had used before, talking about Alfred.

Bruce was so caught up in his revulsion at the implications he almost missed Damian’s small gesture toward the package. His brows furrowed, trying to get the message across. An incomprehensible mumble didn’t make it past the pacifier.

“What?” Bruce mumbled, lowly enough it wouldn’t carry.

Damian could only tap the meat again, but he stopped with a cringe when April called, “Come back, pumpkin.”

He made desperate eyes at Bruce, but there was no telling what he was trying to say.

“Don’t make me count.”

Damian jerked like he had been shocked, and reluctantly slank back to the table.

“That’s a good boy,” April praised. “Timmy, why don’t you help your brother into his special chair?”

Both boys startled at the suggestion. Tim opened his mouth, but it only took a stern look from April for him to snap it shut again.

“Okay, Mommy.”

When it was clear Tim was going to follow through, rising on unsteady feet, April turned back to Bruce. “I’m going to have a conversation with Richie and see if he’s ready to join us. Go ahead and put the meat on, honey. We won’t be long.”

The three of them were left outside.

Damian scanned the fence with narrowed eyes, obviously making the same calculations Tim and Bruce had minutes before. Instead of his usual sullen look, he wore an almost panicked expression.

“We can’t leave without Alfred,” Tim reminded him.

Damian’s head snapped toward his older brother, who was painstakingly inching around the table, obviously in pain. The younger boy gave a curt nod, then nodded again, more enthusiastically, gesturing with his hands in a way neither of them could interpret.

Bruce turned back to the grill. It was getting warm.

“I don’t think. . . I can’t. . .” Tim started.

Bruce looked up to Damian glaring down at Tim’s shaking knees. Then he nodded once, curtly, before climbing into the highchair himself. He lowered the tray with obviously-reluctant hands. His nose scrunched at the sound of the lock fastening.

Bruce began to unwrap the meat.

It wasn’t hamburger.

A terrible feeling sank into his stomach as he continued to pull the plastic from the parcel. It wasn’t the right texture; too lean and too sinewy. The meat was cut roughly around the edges. Damian’s wordless warnings were beginning to make more sense.

A horrible thought occurred to him. “Did you see Alfred?” Bruce asked.

Tim looked at Bruce in surprise; Damian nodded gravely, keeping eye contact with Bruce.

Bruce held up a poorly-packed meat patty, and Damian’s eyes widened when he realized what Bruce was implying. He shook his head several times.

Bruce had a million questions he wanted to ask, but they had limited time and Damian had limited ability to answer. So he lowered his voice to ask, “Is he in condition to run?”

Damian hesitated.

He shook his head.

Tim’s eyes widened with understanding. “She took you to the basement? What’s the code?”

Damian nodded, then hesitated. He tried signing again with his hands, but it was unclear what he was doing. He tried tapping next, but the sound and movement was ambiguous with the bulky fleece.

Huffing with frustration, Damian reached for the strap and buckle holding the pacifier in his mouth. It looked painful where it dug into his cheeks. He couldn’t manipulate the lock, though, with his mittened hands.

Tim glanced back at the house warily.

“I’ll keep lookout,” Bruce promised. He could see through the upstairs window. Not well, but enough to catch movement when they left the room.

“You know I can’t take it off,” Tim hedged. “But she might not notice if I just loosen it a little.”

His chains rattled as he undid the claps with deft fingers. Damian shut and opened his mouth, teeth clicking together gratefully. The skin under the lips of the pacifier was red and irritated; that under the buckle was bruised a dark purple.

There was a flash of movement in the upstairs window, and Bruce stiffened.

Tim, attuned to his reactions, immediately frowned. “Later,” he promised, buckling the pacifier back in. (None of them could guarantee there would be a later, but nobody said anything against it.) He did keep his word, at least, buckling the device at least one hole wider than it had been before. (All of the holes were stretched out; it was well-used.)

“I’m sorry,” Tim muttered, as he fastened the restraints over Damian’s wrists. But he was looking at Damian’s neck, the bruises around it.

Damian rolled his eyes. The movement lacked its normal bravado.

The back door slammed open as Tim sat, ricocheting off the brick wall and almost hitting Dick as he stumbled out. April, hot on his heels, caught it just in time.

The glower Dick wore was dampened by the fresh bruise across his jaw, making the three boys a matching set. His feet were bare like Tim’s, and his hands restrained in a similar fashion. Unlike the others, he hadn’t changed clothes since the night before; April clearly hadn’t given him the chance.

Dick took stock of the situation in a split second and pivoted, giving April a dirty look normally reserved only for the worst of villains.

April’s only response was the set her hands on her hips. She was not tall, but her figure was imposing in the doorway. “That’s one. Now, Richie, you’re already in enough trouble. Do you really want to make it worse?”

Dick opened his mouth to spit something Bruce was sure would be terrible, but it was Tim who called out, “No.”

When Dick looked up, Tim was pointing directly at Damian’s neck.

It was clear to everyone the moment the connection clicked. Dick’s nostrils flared at the evidence of abuse, but he wisely snapped his mouth shut.

Damian scowled, unable to adjust himself away from scrutiny.

“That’s what I thought.” April smirked. “Richie, why don’t you tell daddy what you did.”

Bruce didn’t realize he was pulling against the grill until his chains clinked merrily.

Dick’s eyes were narrow. “I did what was best for me.”

April’s face warped into something scarier. “Two. Young man, if you don’t start following my rules _right now_ , I’ll have to put you in time-out.”

Tim bent his head down into his open palm, propping his head up via his elbow. His mouth was pressed into a thin line, an expression Bruce was told that they shared.

But Damian’s eyes went wider at the threat, and the sharp shake of his head was telling.

Seeing that, Dick took a deep breath. Without turning away from April, he called over his shoulder, “I disobeyed a rule.”

“Which one?” April prompted, with a threatening voice.

“I didn’t take the drugs.”

“Three. Try again.” Her eyes grew wider in that way they had all come to recognize as a sign that she was about to blow.

Dick was quick to remedy his remark. “I didn’t take my vitamins, which meant I wasn’t following _Mommy_ ’s directions.” He spit the title like a curse.

April didn’t react, frozen on the cusp of losing her control. Her crazed eyes were still focused on Dick with an uncomfortable intensity; Bruce noticed Damian shrink away from the look. (She had spent the night in the nursery, after all. Damian had probably been on the receiving end of many such stares.)

Finally, April broke the silence with a loud exhale. “That’s right, sweetie. You have to take your vitamins and listen to mommy so you’ll grow up big and strong.”

Dick bit his tongue, the shift of the muscles in his arms an obvious sign of the kind of quip he was holding back. It was only that gesture, that instinct to lean back on humor, that revealed to Bruce how nervous his eldest was.

“That’s why we’ll have to punish you, so you’ll remember next time,” April said. Her head tilted to the side, letting a single loose wisp of strawberry-blonde hair fall across her face in a move that would be beautiful if she had blinked in the last two minutes.

She had said ‘we.’

“Honey?” she called, and Bruce realized with dawning horror that she was addressing him.

“Yes?”

“What do you think we should do?”

Tim lifted his head from his hands in shock; Dick stepped backward. The only sound was the meat, sizzling on the grill behind him.

Bruce was blanking. He couldn’t be involved in hurting his kid. “You mean as punishment?”

April laughed lightly and without humor. “Yes, darling. I was thinking it would need to be something that would really _stick_. We don’t want our boy to be weak, do we?”

She paused, and it took Bruce a long moment to figure out it wasn’t a rhetorical question, still bristling at the insinuation that Dick belonged to her at all. “No,” he hedged. “But—”

“I was thinking,” April continued, cutting him off. She grabbed Dick’s right hand, flipping it over to expose the palm. “Should we break or burn?”

Dick startled backward, but April’s grip on his hand was tight enough he was caught still. Tim stiffened, half-risen from his seat at the table like he wanted to help. Damian wore what could only be called a sneer of disgust, but the bow of his shoulders revealed more.

Bruce was frozen. “What?” But his brain was already supplying facts and figures: a broken bone would take at least four weeks to heal; a superficial partial-thickness burn would take less than three. Dick’s acrobat palms were layered with callouses. Dick’s second foster parent broke his arm when he pushed him down the stairs.

“Come on, honey, if you can’t choose we may just do both.”

“Burn,” Bruce blurted.

Dick jumped again at the outburst, but April just smiled. “Very well, then.”

Her hand closed around the slack between Dick’s wrists, and she began to march him toward Bruce.

Bruce’s heartbeat was loud in his own ears. “What are you doing?”

“I’m not doling out the punishment this time,” April said. “You are.”

Dick dug his heels into the soft ground. “Wait.”

“That’s four. No, Richie,” April sing-songed. She yanked on the chain again, at an angle low enough it forced Dick to stoop. “Don’t make things worse for yourself. We can still do both.”

A soft grunt of pain caught Bruce’s attention, and he looked across the yard to find Tim attempting to stand, levering himself up by the table in front of him. A sharp look was all it took to send him crashing back down. He still mouthed a few choice curses, but Bruce couldn’t hear them from here.

They couldn’t afford for Tim to be dragged into this “punishment,” too.

When April reached the grill, she held the chain out to Bruce like someone would hand off a leash. The corner of Dick’s mouth twitched down at the action, but when Bruce reluctantly took the offering, his face went perfectly blank.

“Dick?” Bruce asked.

“You see, sweetie,” April said, patting Dick over the head. “This really hurts us more than it hurts you.”

Bruce made eye contact with Dick, and then Tim, and then Damian. Each of them tensed like they were ready to take off. But escape wasn’t an option. Damian was stuck. April was careful to stay out of Bruce’s reach. Dick was restrained. Tim was injured.

Alfred was still locked in the basement, and apparently not well.

April cocked her head to the side to look at the grill. “How hot do you think it is?” She plucked a strip of the mystery meat off the platter and dropped it on the grill.

It sizzled at contact.

“Hot enough,” she answered herself. “I’ll get the timer.”

Dick paled, but it was Bruce who protested. “We don’t need one.”

April shook her head. “In the heat of the moment—” she laughed, a tinkling laugh that would be pleasant coming from anybody else. “In the heat of the moment time gets away from us, sometimes. We have to keep a timer so we don’t _overcook_ anything.”

Bruce knew he was making a face. There was no cowl to hide behind, no reason to keep up the ruse of Brucie. He poured every ounce of his disgust into his sneer. “You’re sick.”

April ignored him. She stooped to rummage through the drawers in search of the little timer.

It was only the thought of her retaliation that kept his grip tight around the chain between Dick’s hands.

The strip of meat on the grill blackened and burned, crumbling away between the woven wires of the grate.

Dick turned a shade greener, his eyes trained on the burning coals under the grate. His face betrayed no fear, his jaw set in rigid determination.

Still.

“I’m—” Bruce started, whispering.

“Don’t,” Dick replied, matching his tone. “I knew what would happen.”

“Still.” Bruce looked at the yard again. Dick was fast and strong; he could carry at least one person. He dropped his voice impossibly lower to say, “You could get Tim and leave.”

“ _No_.”

“Dick—”

“I’m not a kid anymore. You can’t force me to run away.”

April stood up again, holding a timer aloft in one manicured hand. The opportunity was lost.

“Here we go,” she announced. The timer was a small mechanical thing, with bells on top and a tiny hammer. Nothing had ever looked more sinister. “Remind me what you did wrong?” she asked.

Dick’s expression was stone. “I didn’t follow directions.”

April nodded. “One second for disobeying my rule. One for not taking your vitamins.” She turned the timer to 2.

One muscle in Dick’s neck relaxed at that. His calluses would protect him at least partially.

“One second for each of the incorrect bank account codes you gave me yesterday,” April continued.

“Hang on—” Dick actually stepped backward at the announcement. (He pulled up short against Bruce’s grip.) “That’s not—”

“That’s five,” she whispered. But she cranked up the dial by three.

“Honey,” Bruce growled. “That’s too long.”

April was looking at Dick like she was _enjoying_ this. “And one second for every time you’ve resisted your punishment.”

Dick froze. It was obvious fear this time, as she clicked the timer up by five more seconds.

“Timmy, how many seconds is that?” April called.

Tim didn’t hide his glare. His hands, resting on the table in front of him, were rolled into tight fists. “Ten.”

“Good job!” April grinned at Bruce. “He’s such a smart cookie, isn’t he? I would hate if something else were to happen to him or Dami.”

So that was her play: threaten Tim and Damian if Bruce didn’t help her. A lose-lose situation.

Bruce set his jaw. “Dick?”

Dick didn’t look at him, but he nodded stubbornly.

“Honey, you’ll have to hold him,” April stated, like she wasn’t instructing Bruce on how to potentially _maim_ his son.

Like she had done it before.

“Use the tools. We don’t want you hurting yourself.”

Bruce picked up the tongs, now dripping with the defrosted blood from the meat. With strong reluctance, he closed the mouth of them around Dick’s left hand.

April immediately clucked her tongue. “No, no. That’s for the grill.” She pulled out the flat disk from the drawer. “This,” she said, demonstrating how it hinged open just enough to capture the slack between Dick’s wrists inside, “is for him.”

Bruce held back a growl of anger. Without a word, he accepted the correction, picking up the grate of the grill and swinging it away from the source of the heat.

“The trick is to catch it between the grating,” April explained.

She maneuvered Dick’s hands into place. They were shaking, slightly, and when Dick caught the reaction he balled them into fists, squeezing hard enough to will them to be still. She attached the flat disk from beneath the grating. It caught on the wires, giving Dick about an inch of slack above the grating for movement. It wouldn’t be enough to save his hands.

“On my count,” April said, pushing on Bruce’s arm so the grating swung back over the grill. Dick was forced to follow the movement, leaning over the hot flames. “One.”

Tim stood up again, abruptly, ignoring the pain in his knees. He opened his mouth to say something, but it was Dick who’s head snapped over. “Sit,” he growled. It was heavy with authority, the voice he used when he led a team.

“Two.”

Bruce tried to catch Dick’s eyes. Dick stubbornly kept his gaze ahead, not down but not focused on anything. It was an expression that Bruce had become familiar with during Dick’s first several months at the manor.

“Three.”

Before Dick could react to the word, April wrapped a hand over Bruce’s and _yanked_ down, forcing the grating to slam into place.

Dick’s palms made contact with a loud _hiss_.

His weight was thrown forward with the unexpected movement, and he leaned on his palms, against the hot metal. He immediately tried to pull himself back, but his hands stayed low, barely resisting contact.

April’s hand was still tight around Bruce’s, holding the grating down. With her free hand, she started the timer.

Dick shuddered, breathing in deeply in an attempt to manage the pain. But even that couldn’t minimize the urge to jerk against the strong hold on his wrists.

“That was four seconds,” April announced cheerily. “Not even halfway there.”

The words tore a strangled keen from the back of Dick’s throat. He cut off the sound by biting his lower lip, squeezing his eyes shut.

Bruce tried to drop the tongs. April held him fast, her grip deceptively steel.

“Six seconds!”

Dick arched forward, stomach contracting.

His fingers curled and flexed obscenely, changing which part of his fingers received the most direct heat.

Still, he didn’t make a sound.

“Two more.”

Bruce’s hands were sweating. Even from a foot away, the heat was intense.

Dick was pale, almost a shade of green.

The timer rang.

Bruce immediately moved to lift the grate again.

April dropped all of her weight onto it.

Dick’s knees went soft and he dropped with a loud gasp.

“Stop,” Bruce said.

April was frozen, eyes glued to the bright angry skin on Dick’s palms.

“Stop!” Bruce pushed her away bodily, his own restraint pulling taught when he followed through with the momentum.

The grate slid off the grill as Dick collapsed, and without thinking Bruce knocked it aside before it could land on Dick. The sting that followed lingered for several seconds, leaving long pink lines against his arm.

Bruce ignored it, stooping as low as he could with his restraint to check on his son.

Tears silently ran from his tightly-shut eyes, his expression a rictus of pain. He squirmed in place in discomfort, his hands hovering in the air where they were still attached, twitching between clasping and not.

“Dick,” Bruce whispered. “You’ll need to hold still.”

Dick’s next breath was a silent sob. “B. It hurts. It still—” a broken sound crawled out of his throat.

Bruce used the tongs to disconnect the disc, letting the grate drop to the ground and freeing Dick’s hands. His eldest immediately curled around them, breaths coming short and too fast.

His palms and fingers were still a bright red, almost white in places, and covered in a myriad of swollen blisters. “I know, I know,” Bruce tried to soothe. “It’s okay. Breathe.”

He needed medical attention. Immediately.

“ _Honey,”_ came a dangerous drawl from off to the side. “I’m going to get something to clean that with.” As April stood, her hand trailed over Bruce’s shoulder.

“And you’re going to regret that.”


End file.
